


oil and grease, heart and home

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Biting, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Dancer Peter Parker, Everyone Needs A Hug, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Kinda, Kissing, M/M, Mechanic Harley Keener, Not A Fix-It, Orphans, Panties, Post-Endgame, Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 11:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: “You predicted this outcome?” Peter says. He’s glad Harley can’t see his face because he sounds as awful as he feels. Maybe worse.Harley steps towards him and Peter doesn’t even flinch. “Not me. Tony. I’ve been waiting for you, Spider. Technically I think I was supposed to come after you. Make sure you didn’t kill yourself. But I may not’ve met you, but I know your type.”





	oil and grease, heart and home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Areiton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/gifts).



 

Peter stumbles on him by accident, hiding from a thug he was just too tired to fight. 

He’s still wearing his suit, the one Tony made for him, so when he turns and there’s a familiar set of blue eyes and a gun in his face he sinks to his ass on the stone floor. 

Harley Keener gives him a  _ look _ , but he doesn’t holster the gun. “So you’re the Amazing Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman?” He cocks his head and it’s not quite mocking, and says, “You give up so much easier than I expected.”

“You predicted this outcome?” Peter says. He’s glad Harley can’t see his face because he  _ sounds _ as awful as he feels. Maybe worse. 

Harley steps towards him and Peter doesn’t even flinch. “Not me. Tony. I’ve been waiting for you, Spider. Technically I think I was supposed to come after you. Make sure you didn’t kill yourself. But I may not’ve met you, but I know your type.”

“You even know how to fire that?” Peter grunts for lack of rebuttal. 

Harley scoffs. “Tony might not’ve built me a suit but I was his first and he did teach me how to protect myself.”

“So what can you do for me, that Tony couldn’t do himself? That I can’t figure out on my own?” Peter asks. There’s a bite to the question, a cruel, grieving, vicious rage at this  _ human _ who thinks he can help Peter. 

Harley looks at him with blue eyes that look like death and says, “Teach you how to be a real orphan. One without an Aunt, without a Mentor, with a family broken and scattered and gone.”

Peter sobs then, the first time since a second coming, and Harley turns back to his engines and let’s him weep in silence. 

—

When Peter’s mask is soaked and sitting beside him, his eyes puffy and sticking together, and his breath nothing more than hiccups, Harley throws something at him. A shirt, jeans. Socks that look well worn and soft, warm. 

“You reek. His suit might be fancy but it doesn’t bath you, Parker. Clean yourself up. Shower is that way,” Harley says. He waves an oily hand vaguely and Peter stares at rows of parts and lockers and half assembled engines.

“How come you know all about me and I barely know about you?” He asks, angry when his voice cracks. 

Harley goes violently still, back tight beneath the grey shirt, and his hands are the only thing moving, turning a wrench or a clench or whatever. “Not all of us can protect ourselves against aliens and Captains and accords, Parker. Some of us need to keep our heads low.

Peter hears loss in his voice and he has a million questions but Harley is waving his hands again. “Really. Go shower before I vomit.”

“There’s not any uhm,” Peter blushes. 

“Go commando? Everyone knows you wear a thong in that suit. It’s not too much different.” Harley half turns his head, smirking, and Peter’s face is on fire as he scurries towards the lockers.

Turns out the showers are just behind them. And there’s a towel and some soap. And some underwear a little too white for Peter’s liking, but clean anyway. 

—

There’s a steaming bowl of something sitting on a workbench when Peter gets out. He’s rolled the cuffs of the jeans up, and pushed the sleeves up to his elbows cause Harley is a little longer, a little taller than him. He takes the bowl, relishing the warmth in the cold workspace, and when he takes a spoonful he can’t help the surprised noise. 

Harley shoots him a look, startled, and says, “Christ, should’ve called you Ghostboy. Make some noise when you move yeah?”

Peter’s got his mouth full of stew that’s clearly homemade, of a little saffron heavy, when he says, “Shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Harley scoffs and sets his tools down, wiping his hands on a rag and studying Peter. “The suit makes your muscles look bigger.”

Peter scowls. He’s lost weight, since coming back. Since realizing how many people didn’t make it. He wants to say something just as cutting but all he’s got is “You’re not exactly buff yourself, for working in a garage.

“And that’s not exactly calling me too skinny either. I heard that compliment.” Harley winks at him. 

“What is this place, anyway?” Peter asks instead of answering. He’s finished the stew and he’s looking at the bowl a little forlornly when another bowl lands in his hands, this time with crusty bread. 

“My garage,” is all Harley gives him

“How’d you get it?”

“Tony.”

“I’ve never noticed it before…” Peter hedges and Harley throws his hands up. 

“Oh my god you really never shut up do you?” Harley stalks towards him and Peter scarfs his food down like he’s afraid it’s gonna be snatched away and Harley gives him a sad look. “Chill, kid. I’m gonna shower then show you the beds. I’ll answer some questions tomorrow. If I feel like it.”

He lingers above Peter, hand half raised like he wants to pet him or something, but Peter says, “I’m almost 18. And I haven’t been a kid for a while.”

Harley turns away and says so quiet even Peter’s advanced hearing has a hard time catching his, “Yeah, I know. Join the club.”

Peter holds the dirty bowl and stares at the floor until Harley stands above him, hair dripping, and leads him towards a couple of cots in a hidden back room. One is clearly sleep rumpled and the other is so pristine Peter thinks the sheets are cleaned daily. He might could bounce a quarter off it. 

Harley throws him a pillow that smells like Tony’s aftershave and a blanket that’s far too nice for this garage. Peter strips right back out of the jeans, not doesn’t bothering with the ratty pajama bottoms Harley chucks at his head. 

—

Peter quickly learns five things about Harley. 1) He absolutely lives in his garage. 2) He definitely knows how to use his gun. 3) His favorite outfit is just a t-shirt and silk shorts. 4) Asking him about his family or Tony will get you pinned to the wall with either verbal threats or that goddamned gun to your throat. And, perhaps most nice, 5) He can fucking cook. 

Mostly he sticks to stews and pots of meat and gravy and vegetables. Sometimes he does curries, rarely he does fish. But he feeds Peter, always, and then makes Peter clean up. Seems a fair enough trade but Peter likes to grumble just to feel Harley’s fingers in his hair, pushing his head gently. 

They don’t talk about how they got here, but Peter’s good with research. 

The Snap fucked a lot of people. But a lot of people were fucked before the Snap. Keener’s father walked out and his mother worked herself sick. His sister, Peter vomits when he reads what happened.

He wonders if Harley will ever talk about the sister he raised, the sister crushed in the car when her brother vanished. More importantly he learns that Tony took care of Harley. This garage, the training. (Although, there’s enough notes in the files that Peter figures Harley know how to handle a gun well before Tony paid to train him.)

He also finds the account that’s too full for Harley to be utilizing much. He doesn’t ask about it; he has his own account topped off and dusty. 

Harley asks questions though. Too many, and Peter forgets his strength once when Harley asks, genuinely curious, “So, do you think it really was an accident?”

He punches Harley hard enough to crack his nose, split his lip, and possible break his orbital socket. Harley hisses at him, spits blood at his feet and stalks away to grab ice and antiseptics and bandages. 

He makes Peter tend to him, and Peter’s fingers tremble as he tries to be gentle. “Shouldn’t we take you to a Doctor? In case there is a vision issue?”

“And tell them what?” Keener sneers. “The twink I live with has enough force behind his fist to do the same damage as a car? It’s fine. If anything seems amiss in a day or two we’ll ask one of your magic buddies.”

He’s quiet as Peter works though, fingers digging into a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the question that way. It’s just, a lot went down in those five years. A lot of crazy and bad and there weren’t enough good guys.”

“Tony,” Peter starts, and then has to stop to gather himself. “Pepper says he looked into it. Followed a thousand different leads. I wasn’t there to help with bills and she didn’t want charity and she was just out late and exhausted. Didn’t see the ice. By the time anyone found her…” he’d seen the pictures. “Reports say she probably passed out immediately and it was kinda like going to sleep.” 

He’s not sure, doesn’t know if that’s how it works, but it makes him feel better to believe it. “And I’m not a twink. Technically, I’m 23.” 

Harley snorts. “Yeah, and I’m 28, not 23. You’re 18 and twinky and if we get desperate you best believe I’ll sell your ass on the street.”

Peter rolls his eyes because they’ll never be that desperate. “You’d fetch at least as much.  You bruise prettier.”

Harley barks a dark laugh. The first Peter has ever heard from him, and he wants more. 

—

Peter doesn’t go back to school. It’s, Keener wants him to. Says  _ Tony would want it, _ which causes a fight that’s ugly and leaves them both bleeding. 

But Peter doesn’t know how to go back and pretend everything is okay. That he’s not an orphan (again) living off his dead mentor’s money with more knowledge and experience than any human should have. 

Plus half his class is 5 years older and the other half…. they care and Peter kind of hates them for it. 

But Keener makes him go for his GED because “You’re too smart to waste in my garage and you can’t live forever swinging between buildings.”

“I’ll show you,” Peter mutters. Harley just shoves mashed potatoes and sausages at him, pushed his head into his book. 

It doesn’t take him long to get his GED. And then Harley starts talking colleges and Peter leaves the garage. 

He isn’t sure where to go, dressed in Harley’s shirt and Harley’s jeans and Harley’s soft socks because he hasn’t bothered to get his own. 

He wanders New York. Wanders the place that felt like home once, wanders until he's lost and Pepper is there, tentatively holding him, and leading him into a house he’s only seen once and never wanted to see again. 

“Harley’s looking for you,” she says quiet, distracted as she tries to wrangle a five year old into a bath. 

“Harley is an ass who can fuck himself,” Peter mumbles. 

Pepper gives him a look, but Morgan’s screaming into the tub about… mermaids and stuff, and Pepper looks weary. 

“I should go,” Peter says. Because he should. He’s already taken too much from this family. He can’t be here, taking Pepper’s time, reminding Morgan of what  _ he _ took from her.

“Shut up, Parker,” Pepper snaps. “God, you and Keener, So Much like Tony it’s a wonder he  _ didn’t  _ father you both. Damn guilt complexes. Hero complexes.” She turns on him, hands soapy on her waist, but eyes soft and tear damp. “You and Harley, you’ll come home when you’re ready.  I know this. Tony knew this. But right now you need each other and you’ll just have to cope with it and be as good for each other as you can be. I want you home, where you belong, but not battered and bruised and angry. It’s not good for Morgan. Now. I’ll feed you, let you sleep here tonight and put Harley’s worries to rest but then you go home and  _ deal _ .”

She sounds so much like May, no room for argument, Peter thinks he might cry. He doesn’t, over hamburgers and fries, but it’s close, and when he falls asleep in a sea-themed bed, he’s surprised to dream of nothing. 

—

Peter doesn’t go home. He swings by the compound but it’s dusty and empty and he swings by his old home but someone new lives there

So he goes to a studio he’s almost forgotten about. The same withered, Korean teacher is still there, magic as always, and she lets him into an empty room. She gives him a box, the same one that always has the right song, and a pair of shoes that shouldn’t fit anymore 

Peter dances. He spins, bends, sweats, twirls. The music shifts about him, angry, melancholic, whimsical, confusing, hopeful. 

The music flows in him, bleeds from him like his web, breaks in him like the last five years. Like all of the years. Good and bad and just existent. 

He dances until he can’t, until he puddles on the floor, sweaty and exhausted and sore in a way that matches the hurt in the core of him. 

Someone whistles low and languid, seductive, and Peter half tilts his head to see Harley watching him, oil and greased stained. His blue eyes are warm, but not the warmth of kindness. Peter knows that warmth, he’s seen it in his own eyes for… most of the avengers, honestly. 

“So that’s why Tony kept you around,” Harley purrs.

“Never danced for ‘em,” Peter says tiredly. 

“Then he missed out,” Harley says. He doesn’t approach Peter. He sinks to the wooden floor, watching him in the mirror. Peter closed his eyes and enjoys the sensation of eyes tracking his body, his muscles. No one, that he can remember, has looked at him that way. Not even the asshole he let take his virginity before the world went to shit. 

“Why’d you quit?” Harley asks. It’s gruff, the way all his questions are, but it rings true.

“At first, there wasn’t money. And then, there wasn’t time. And finally, there wasn’t a reason.” Peter says. 

“Why do you always answer my questions?” 

Peter shrugs against the floor. “‘Cause,” he says, trying to figure it out. “What is there to lose by not answering?” 

Harley hums like it makes any senses, then moves to lie beside Peter. “You comin’ home t’night?”

“Guess,” Peter grumbles. 

“Shower when you get there. Tomorrow we oughta get you your own clothing.” Harley sounds almost disappointed when he says that. Peter half smiles.

“Can I keep your socks, at least?” 

Harley bumps his hand, then lifts him up, and they head back to the garage. If they keep their thumbs hooked, it’s too dark for anyone to see. 

—

Harley has two bachelors and a masters in mechanics and engineering and he runs a shop that’s really just a hole in the wall and he works on engines he sells for too little to companies that do good things with them. He’s smarter than Peter expected and kinder, too.

“Millions,” Peter hisses. “You could’ve made millions.”

Harley flares at him. “Why? They couldn’t afford it and I don’t need the money. That tiny little engine will help hospitals stay open for  _ six months  _ in case of major catastrophe. That company can help a lot of people in a lot of places.”

Peter seethes, but he’s not sure why he’s mad. Tony would’ve been proud of the engine. He’s not sure about the business part but he’d have  _ loved _ the good that could be done. 

“You’re wasted here,” Peter says, defeated. “When are you gonna realize that and find somewhere that treats you better. Like you’re worth?”

“You mean someone,” Harley corrects him. But he doesn’t look up from his current metal mass and Peter doesn’t deign to respond. 

“Goin’ on patrol,” he grunts. 

“Don’t bleed all over everything when you come back. Customers ask too many questions.”

—

They saved the world, but the Avengers  couldn’t be saved. Tony was the heart, the arch-reactor holding them together. Natasha was the soul none of them realized they had. Steve was the face. 

Now the Guardians and Thor were lost in space. Sam was struggling under the weight of a shield, Bucky struggling to hold him up. 

Carol was hopefully with her lady, Rhodey…. Peter honestly doesn’t know. 

He thinks Clint’s got the right idea going off grid, and he hates Wakanda for rebuilding, for isolating again.

He doesn’t blame AntMan and Wasp for going back to their life. Doesn’t blame any of them. Hell, he’s back to just trying to keep his tiny little hole in the world safe.

But sometimes he misses the team. The sense of family. When they broke, they shattered. Too many scattered pieces, not enough glass for even a window ornament. 

He’s not sure why he goes out. He’s not protecting much of anything, and Harley’s getting real tired of patching him up. 

“Shouldn’t you have super healing?”

“I do,” Peter says, “but it's still not instantaneous.”

His arm is hanging all wrong and he can’t see out of one eye. His other tracks Harley’s stoic concern, but also a sense of… “How often did you patch Mr. Stark up?”

“All the times he didn’t want y’all to see him that way,” Harley grunts. His face goes green, does complicated things in the brows and lips region, and then he stands abruptly. He looks like he wants to run, but there’s nowhere for him to go. This garage, this is all he’s had for a while now.

“You guys used to forget just how  _ human _ Tony was. Even Pepper sometimes. And all you heroes have this thing about making people worry and asking for help.” He says it angry and bitter, small, like a child who hasn’t forgotten the back hand. “I fixed him. I took care of him and fed him.”  _ First  _ he doesn’t say.

“Did you,” Peter starts, “were you guys,” he hesitates. Afraid of his question. 

“Yeah, Peter. I had a crush too. Hard not to on a guy like Tony. But no. Don’t worry,  that was all for you.

Peter blushes, to the roots of all his hair, and says, “Wasn’t ever like that. I mean I wanted it to be, briefly. But it’d‘ve never worked and I stopped seeing him like that.”

Harley’s eyes him, finishes stitch his eye and shrugs. “Shame. One of us should’ve tapped that.”

But they eat in silence that night, and Peter pretends he doesn’t see tears falling onto Harley’s plate. 

Still, when they go to bed, he pushes their cots together. “Nightmares. And it’s cold.”

If they wake up curled around each other, it’s the frost on the window.

—

Harley doesn’t cry. Not when they go to the memorials, to the private graves. Not when he slices his hand open trying to catch jagged metal, or the news tells them of another tragedy.

Not when Peter weeps on birthdays and death days.

Not on Thanksgiving when they celebrate alone, no family or friends around them and too much turkey and stuffing. They end up giving a lot of it away on the streets. 

But Peter wakes up one night to a wretched noise and his cot shaking. It takes him a moment, enhanced sense and all, to figure out the noise. 

It’s three days before Christmas and Harley Keener is sobbing next to Peter like he might never breathe right again. 

Peter doesn’t know what to do, what won’t be rejected. But he does his best. He gathers Harley in his lap, despite Harley being his weight and taller, tucked them around each other, and strokes hair the color of butterscotch. He hums a song he barely remembers, some really old, sad lullaby. 

His shirt is soaked with in minutes and Harley’s hands grasp his waist so tight Peter thinks even with the healing there will be bruises. He rocks them, until the sun begins to peek through a window that they really should clean. Until Harley’s noises are just choked breaths and half-hiccups. Until he is so stiff he has to move, has to lay Harley’s head in his lap and offer him questionable tissues to wipe his eyes. “You gonna talk about it?” Peter asks quiet. He doesn’t expect anything but being shoved away. 

So when Harley wraps his arms around him,rolls to bury his face in Peter’s belly, and speaks into his damp shirt, he  _ listens.  _

“We met today. He was an asshole, you know. In that Tony Stark way. But he believed in me. And let me help.” Harley goes quiet for a long time, fingers dipping beneath Peter’s shirt, playing with curls and skin and hips that will probably always be a little to sharp. “And then he left. And I thought, ‘yeah, makes sense,’ but then he never totally left. He sent cards. To me and my sister. And money. And when mom… he visited when he could and brought us here and got me through school. Surprised me with a ton of cool tech. And wanted me to meet  _ his _ people. Meet you especially. Cause he was proud of me. Like no one else was. But I didn’t want to meet you. Didn’t want to share him.”

Harley is sniffing again, not quite crying but his face is warm and wet against Peter’s skin. “He wasn’t my dad, but he was the best damn father a boy could hope for. And I didn’t get to say goodbye. Not like you did.” His lips are there, just above Peter’s right hip, and when he speaks again, Peter can feel teeth. “I wanted to hate you for that. For stealing him first and then getting the goodbye. But now…” 

“Now you’re glad you didn’t see him that way,” Peter finishes, hands twisting in butterscotch hair. 

Harley nods. “But he always remembered today which is such a random date to remember, given his life. He always,  _ always _ came to see me. Always.”

Harley starts sobbing again, huge, belly deep things, and then Peter is crying and all they can do is hold each other and ache for the father-who-never-was. 

—

Christmas in the garage is quiet. A small, scraggly branch and one poorly wrapped gift a piece. But the food is good, and the music loud, and they’re warm. Peter dances, drunk off whatever Harley keeps handing him, and for the first time they don’t feel the crushing weight of all they’ve lost. 

Christmas sucks, but it’s theirs, cold and lonely, warm and together, and when the sky goes totally dark, they crowd together on a metal bench, uncaring that it’s  _ too small.  _

Harley kisses him first. His blue eyes, warm, glassy, cold, aware, watch Peter first. He asks permission with the hands on his waist, with the way he carefully flips them, knowing Peter is letting him. 

The first kiss is just a peck, too quick and soft. Harley pulls back, watches brown eyes go black, and he leans in again. He presses his lips to Peter’s, taste cherry and moonshine and ham.  Peter licks back enthusiastically, their mouths warm against each other’s, dry despite it all. 

Harley kinda likes the chapped lips, weird as that is. He lets Peter rip his shirt, half-hearted grumbling about having to replace it. He’s silenced by Peter doing a full body writhe against him, brushing a half hard, shorts-covered cock against his own. Peter swallows his grown and drags blunt nails down his back. 

“Too much,” Peter says, pawing at Harley’s shorts. 

“Hey, woah,” Harley says, even as he tugs at Peter’s sweater. “We ain’t gotta rush.”

“Need you,” Peter demands. “Have for a while.” He shimmies out of his own shorts in a way only a dancer could, leaving him in a pair of Harley’s fuzzy socks and pale blue satin panties. 

Harley swallows. “You sure ‘bout this? It’ll change things, and you’re a little tipsy and-“

Peter cuts him off with chapped lips and a hand digging into his jeans, gripping him almost too hard. “I know what I want, Harley Keener. I always have. Orphans do, ya know.”

Harley bites his shoulder for that remark, but he lets Peter shuck his jeans off, gently this time, and peel down dark boxers. He keeps his own socks on partly cause Peter’s got cold feet even through wool and partly so he doesn’t lose another pair. 

It’s nice that Peter’s so flexible, given the size of their surface, but Harley licks him open, grinning each time he has to grip Peter’s knee, each time a moan echoes about the concrete walls.

“Harley,” Peter practically sobs. “Stop teasing!”

“‘Mm not. I don’t want it to hurt,” Harley says, even as he digs for lube and slips a finger in. Peter goes deathly still, and Harley looks up to make sure it’s all okay.

“No one cared about that before,” Peter whispers. 

Harley kisses his inner knee, then his thigh, then his hip and his curls. “I care,” he says, matter of fact. “Let me do this.”

Peter lets him. He bites his wrist as Harley works one, two, three fingers in, twisting and curling and he can’t stop when his hips jerk up. Harley grins against his stomach. 

It’s a quick, smooth entrance, and they both still as Peter adjust and then he’s digging his heels into Harley’s ass. “Move, holy shit  _ move _ .”

“Bossy twink,” Harley half laughs. “Good thing I didn’t try to sell this ass. Would’ve lost money.” 

Peter half-heartedly slaps at him, and Harley responds by thrusting hard enough to shift them both. There’s not much talking after that. Just flesh against flesh, moans, pleading. 

Harley comes first, comes hard, and it spills out of Peter and puddles between them. Harley grips Peter’s cock, strokes him, but it doesn’t take much before he arches up and screams his release. 

They pant against each other, until they’re shivering and sore and grossed out by the sweat and come. 

Harley leads Peter to the shower, and they slowly clean each other, amid kisses and soft touches.

When they’re curled against each other, still naked, Harley asks, “Good?”

Peter snorts. “As if you don’t know,” but then he catches Harley’s eyes, the fierce concern and determination. “Yeah. Yeah, better than good. Great. Definitely repeatable, at the very least.”

Harley slaps his ass, and Peter’s eyebrows dance and  _ oh _ they’ll have to explore that one.

—

Harley finds Peter spinning to music only he can hear. The studio is his now. Still unnamed despite the three years he’s owned it. Everyone just called it “That Dance Place.”

He never convinced Peter to go to college. Not officially. Peter studies though. Anytime he’s not here, or swinging between skyscrapers. 

He bought it with Tony’s money, and Pepper’s blessing, and Morgan’s excitement. 

Morgan Stark is going to be the world’s greatest dancer if she isn’t the world's youngest genius or the world's finest inventor.

Peter says she’s gonna be all three and then some. Haley’s doesn’t disagree. Peter watches brown eyes in the mirrors and smiles. “Dinner, babe. We had plans?”

And Peter frowns, collapses gracefully onto the wooden floor. “Do we gotta?”

Harley steps in, shoes toed off so as not to scuff the dance floor. “Yeah, babe. We ‘gotta’ ‘cause we promised.”

Peter lets himself be pulled up and into Harley’s embrace, clasping their hands together just so he can feel the metal, hear it clink against other metal. “Why?”

Harley kisses him, just below his ear, sucks the spot. “Because they’re trying. And Pepper and Morgan will be there. People want to celebrate, Peter. And we’ve given them reason.”

“I didn’t send out invites,” Peter snarks. 

“You wanted small and quiet. I have given you private and… smallish,” Harley tuts. 

“I don’t want to see them,” Peter says. And that’s the issue. Always has been.

“You need this. The Avengers may never get back together, but you need them. Or at least this closure,” Harley holds him close and inhales the scent of sweat and spandex. 

“Closure. At a wedding.” Peter says it deadpan and bored, but his voice waivers. 

“We found closure on a cot in a garage. There’s weirder ways to do it,” Harley chides. 

Peter scoffs. But he lets himself be lead away, be bathed and dressed and taken to a lake that once held a funeral and is now decked out with a simple iron arch. A sad place where a man with metal wings that’s gonna make them each other’s forever, and try to overwrite some of that greasy sorrow with oily happiness that only makes sense to the gathered crowd.  
  
  



End file.
